In the old days, traveling to the far corners of the Earth would make a man a legend. Now, when one could be anywhere on the planet within 48 hours, journeying to exotic locales had lost its original luster to men like Ramsay Westing, currently lounging on a beach on the edge of the Indian Ocean. With money to spare, he had time to relax between his great exploits, vacationing in places most men had never even heard of.
A private island off the coast of Madagascar was perfect for a short getaway, and with only a few other renters present, he was free to relax alone. Presently, he lounged half-nude on a towel near the water, his skin drinking in the Sun's rays. Ocean breeze passed over his sculpted body, the product of obsessive training and inherited super-human genetics. A pair of black sunglasses rested on his nose; all around him, the beach was flat. Just the surf and the sand.
About 75 meters away was his rented beachhouse, where most of his belongings were, as well as the keys to a parked Lexus RS (also rented). At his side was a book that delved into the origins and influence of Blackwater, an American PMC. He allowed his eyes to close, the Sun high in the cloudless sky above.